


Within these four walls

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Prostate Massage, Slow Build, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things we don't talk about outside Baker Street. Here are some of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Within these four walls

John and I are very private men, not given to sharing our innermost thoughts beyond a tightly regimented circle. In addition to me, John has Lestrade and, though it galls me to say it, I have Mycroft.

But there are some things that, although John and I have never discussed it, will never be shared beyond the four walls of 221B Baker Street.

**--**

The whisper of sheets and a breeze was all the warning I had before John slipped soundlessly in beside me.

“Nightmare?” I murmured, still half asleep.

“Nightmare. Need to hear you breathing.”

There was clear frustration at himself in his tone. This was becoming a regular occurrence, John appearing in the dark of the night to reassure himself that the bloodied images were spectres of the past. The sounds of war now overlaid with images of my own crumpled form on the sidewalk haunted him.

“It’s fine.” I murmured; sleep already tugging me back into its embrace.

“Thanks,” there was a sigh, and then silence.

**--**

“Can’t sleep?” John’s groggy voice greeted me in the dark of his room.

“Can’t stop thinking, do you mind?” I took another step closer to his bed.

There was a rumbling chuckle and the edge of the sheets parted from his bed like the tide receding on a beach, “Hop in.”  
John’s bed isn’t as forgiving as mine. His queen-size doesn’t offer the generosity of my king and, quite frankly, my sheets are far better. But for quality of sleep, the gentle rumble of John’s almost-snore lulls me into a deep and restful oblivion that is unmatched.

I don’t bother thanking him. The rumbling wheeze has already resumed and he’s swallowed up by the voluminous comforter he insists upon.

**--**

“Jesus fuck, ow…damn…shit,” John startles upright in my bed, blanket falling away as he flails and gasps in pain.

“Wait,” I shout, sleep banished in a heartbeat as adrenaline kicks me into action and I grab at the spasming arm in a now practiced response, “here… come here.”

“Fuck! Sorry, shit… sorry… Sherlock, ow… damn it.”

I lean across him, chest to chest, and push. One arm around the wrist of his outstretched arm, the other across his clavicle and palm down on his shoulder joint, flexing away the cramp.

Our faces are inches apart and John is practically shouting into my mouth, obscenities laced with gasps of pain easing to grateful moans as the muscles give up their rictus grip on him.

I stare down at him, my intense inspection met with his apologetic gratitude, different shades of blue both made slate in the sparse light. There’s no need for thanks, we save each other from pain on a daily basis, this is just one more type. I ease my weight off him, wary of the cramp’s return.

John sighs and flexes his shoulders, tugging the blanket back up to cover us both.

**--**

I’m rocking back and forth on John’s bed, arms caging my bent legs as I sob despairingly. This doesn’t happen often, but one of the consequences of John’s influence has been an increasing tendency to wallow in my failures. Somewhere along the line, my haughty detachment has begun to crumble and I’ve begun to remember the faces of those I fail. It’s hateful, and yet I find it’s making me a better detective. So the tears have become the price I pay.

John comes to sit beside me, reaching out to gather me to his solid strength. I uncurl and cling to him like a solitary beacon in an endless ocean. He pats my head and runs firm fingers down my spine and lets me cry. There are no words, no gentle words to suggest I should stop the outpouring of useless tears. Just him, holding me, letting me grieve for lost souls and lost clues.

And then, when the shuddering stops, there is a featherlight brush of lips at my temple and he leaves me to sleep.

**--**

“Is this OK?”

I consider reassuring John that if it wasn’t OK, I certainly would have stopped it by now. Instead, I sink back against him and continue the gentle, unhurried exploration of each other’s mouth that we began some ninety minutes ago. I can’t quite remember what started it, perhaps it was a certain look upon his face that I deduced meant he needed a damn good kiss, or perhaps it was a particular way my lower lip pouted. Whatever the case, we’d met somewhere in the middle and continued on from there.

Our hands have found comfortable resting places on each other’s bodies. Mine on his hip and chest, his is buried amongst my curls and the other nestled tight against my shoulder. Our legs are restlessly shifting against the others, perhaps similarly hesitant to advertise the need we’re both clearly feeling to press and rut together.

I’ve never consciously wondered what another human being’s mouth tasted like. Now that I know, I find myself content never to taste another. Fresh with minty toothpaste, I’m unsure whether the tingling is simply from that, or something more quintessentially John-flavoured.

His fingers tighten in my hair and I gasp, opening my mouth further and he delves back in, clearly intent on taking up residence in that wet hollow. I can feel him smiling, even around his kisses. He is happy, I realise, deeply and irrepressibly happy to be here with me, sharing this and nothing more. Our hips may beg to differ, but the way he is totally involved in the plundering of my mouth tells me that this is something John Watson enjoys in and of itself.

I experiment with a gentle nip and tug of his bottom lip and he draws back startled, before sucking the offended flesh between his own lips, quirking an appraising grin at me and diving back in, the lip pressed back between mine with unabashed consent.

It’s hours later when the kisses, still leisurely and gentle, slow to a stop, having never escalated to more. I can feel that mine are swollen, and suspect they may even be bruised and red with stubble-rash, but if not for the exhaustion that’s dragging us both under, I doubt I would be stopping even now.

I sigh with contentment, my head pillowed on John’s chest, his fingers still carding idly through my hair as I listen to the steady thud-thud of his lion-sized heart under my ear.

**--**

I wake to John wrapped around me, or perhaps I’m wrapped around him. It’s hard to tell, with our limbs entwined under my rich sheets. I’m warm, comfortable and with John’s cheek on my shoulder and his breath bathing my chest in gentle waves, I am unmistakably aroused.

I shift my head minutely and nudge the top of his head with my chin. There’s a murmured grunt as he begins to wake and realise where he is. With a slight turn, he presses his lips to my shoulder and settled in closer, his arm laying a familiar claim of my chest.

“Hi,” he mumbles fondly.

“Hello,” I place a matching kiss to his grey-blonde hair and roll over enough to make my current state beyond question.

“You interested, or is that just a passing thought,” John’s trailing fingers down my ribs. It’s exquisite.

“It seems rather determined,” I chuckle.

“Good,” he ducks his head to lick at a nipple and I shudder in reaction, “I’d hate to be the only one.”

I trail a hand down his torso to find him in a similar state, my hand enfolds his length, warm and heavy in my hand as if made for it.

There’s a relieved sigh, the damp skin on my chest pebbling further with John’s exhalation and he moves his hand to my own erection, his shorter more robust fingers touching me with long practiced experience.

We shift on the bed, neither releasing their proprietorial grasp, but manoeuvring for optimal access and end facing each other on our sides, John’s straighter form to mine more flexed, bringing our faces and hips into effective alignment and meaning that I’m still within reach of John’s capable hands. Practice makes perfect, and this is a routine we’ve practiced enough that awkward conversations and blushing fumbles for lubrication are behind us.

His strokes are strong and sure and mine are smooth and melodious, giving both what the other desires. I need John’s calm confidence and firm insistence, and he needs my delicacy and ability to instantly deduce what he needs on any given night. My mind stills; surrounded by sensation, sound and smell, and the world contracts to the deep blue eyes that fill my field of vision, as this man who has entirely consumed my world stares at me like I am the centre of his. We are, at this moment, each other’s everything.

A final push, a tug, a twist and I’m there, teetering on the brink, chewing at my bottom lip and lost in the way he’s looking at me, staring at my mouth and I tilt forward to catch his mouth with my own, my shuddering moan lost within his own as the pleasure overwhelms us both. It never matters who reaches the finish first, the other is close behind, dragged as if connected by handcuffs.

He reaches behind for the tissues that have taken up residence at the side of the bed.

**--**

His fingers tentatively circle my scrotum and venture backward. There’s no need for words, the question is clear.

As is the answer as I shuffle closer, granting him the extra reach he needs to conquer his destination.

His eyes meet mine, seeking confirmation and I give a tight-lipped nod. With anyone else, they may take my look as reservation. But John knows me, and sees it as the tightly restrained passion it is.

The bottle lies between us, as it always does and John adds more before he silently returns to his task, circling and pressing, each time a little firmer, a little more persuasively as he counsels my body to give way to his intrusion. He needn’t worry, my body is fairly screaming for his, edgy and raw. I wriggle against his hand, whimpering as his glacial progress continues.

I think briefly that we are always like this; me forging ahead recklessly into the unknown, he more measured, more risk-averse. Always ensuring I am attended and cared for whereas I would likely tumble us into disaster.

 _There_ , I can feel him, too big and yet finally aligned to the size of the impact to my life. Overwhelming, all encompassing, always around me, and now, beautifully, within me as well. _Perfect_.

He smiles at me as I stare, open-mouthed and lost in hedonistic bliss and he asks, “Alright?”

One simple word. No, I’m not _alright_ , this is a world away from alright and I try my best to nod wordlessly in a way that expresses a more appropriate descriptor.

Both his hands are on me now. Stroking inside and out and I am helplessly adrift. Bolt after bolt of lightning strike me as his fingertip caresses in confident expertise. I reach to take him clumsily in hand and he bats me away, a look of infinite fondness accompanying a glance that says _tonight, this is for you_. I whimper and bury my head against his neck as the onslaught continues.

I am scorched, burnt, destroyed, and yet made anew by this man as my eyes widen and light envelops me and I am rising phoenix-like, arching and crying out in joy at the man who holds me in his hands both figuratively and literally.

There is cloth against my skin, damp and warm and my blurry vision confirms that we are both spent. I spare one moment of regret that I missed that moment for him, before he is again curled around me and we rest.

**--**

I am hovering over him, his legs spread wide, an air of desperation and demand at war on his face. He’s tugging at my arms, urging me wordlessly to get on with it. I smile and lean in to kiss him, my fingers still restlessly spreading him open and stroking his prostate, watching his cock twitch at each movement.

“Now, please,” he begs and I relent begrudgingly. Watching him like this is an indulgence, one that I am revelling in, but I am in danger of losing sight of the fact that his pleasure is my priority. My fingers slip out easily and I am in position before he has a chance to bemoan their lack.

I edge forward, testing the way before pushing home. John’s whine is equal parts discomfort and contentment. I know the feeling, having been in that position myself. The odd feeling of having to make way and yet welcoming the intruder.

For my part, it is a feeling of coming home. The closest to belonging and being welcomed that I have ever experienced and I am suddenly alarmingly close to overcome by the sensation. I freeze for a moment and John, alert to my mercurial moods even now, sees my plight and manages to still his movements, laying lax and motionless, giving me time to regroup.

With a nod, he motions me to take my time, and with a breath I shift, rocking against him and delighting in the press of our flesh together. Soft and rigid at the same time, slippery and rough, a cavalcade of sensation for my brain to lose itself in.

He shifts against me, tilting against the pillow under him, and I shuffle my knees closer together, adjusting the angle to allow me to cant my hips with greater force.

There is a gasp and a cry from John as we reach harmony in our positions and I move my hands to his hips to ensure I can maintain this angle. There is the hint of stardust beginning at the edges of my vision, a sure sign that rational thought will begin to slip away, so I open my mouth to pant, dragging oxygen into my lungs, clearing my head to focus on John.

I love the way that he reaches to grasp at the bedhead. Simultaneously providing stability and enhancing John’s ability to thrust back against me. It also has the added benefit of making him look delightfully debauched.

John’s movements are becoming erratic and I relinquish my grip on one hip to begin stroking him in time with our thrusts. Although he is looking at me, I can’t honestly say if he is seeing me anymore. There is a faraway look in his eyes that speaks of being at once apart and yet at one with the universe. I know that place well.

His voice has become a series of grunts, little huffs of breath catching on his vocal cords in their frantic flight from his lungs. It won’t be long now and I begin to give myself over to my own rising swell of desire.

With a final unsolicited rumble of completion, John arches from the bed as every muscle in his body seems to lock and tremble, hugging me tight within himself and dragging me over the edge of the cliff with him. _That’s how it should be, I think_ as I helplessly fall against his chest… together until the end.

**--**

There are some things we don’t talk about beyond the walls of 221B.

There are some things that don’t need many words at all.


End file.
